


Bird Watching

by rvdhoodlum



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Robin - Freeform, Stalker Tim Drake, Tim Drake-centric, lmao he kinda is, pre-robin tim, tim drake's parents could stand to be better at their job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-24 22:09:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14364723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rvdhoodlum/pseuds/rvdhoodlum
Summary: The first time Tim met Robin, he was four years old, and nothing had been set in motion yet.orThere's just something about the universe that brings Tim to Robins. He meets them again and again as he grows up into who he was meant to be.





	Bird Watching

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as a series of warmups and turned into a fic by way of stringing them together paired with my perpetual need to make anything remotely angsty into a full fic. I kinda havent finished a fic in lowkey a long time, so lmk how it went!
> 
> thanks to @khaki-da over on tumblr for a title (i never get that bit right lol)

The first time Tim met Robin, he was four years old, and nothing had been set in motion yet. He remembered being at Haley's Circus with his parents, a trip he’d been looking forward to all week, but wasn’t enjoying very much. The clowns reminded him of monsters he’d seen in picture books, all the carnival games had been rigged, and a man in stilts had knocked into Tim and made him drop his ice cream.

The one thing that made it all worth it, though, was being able to get a picture with the Flying Graysons. Tim had tugged on his mother’s sleeve all day before, exasperated, she agreed to get him a picture with his idols. “It’s supposed to be a formal picture, hon. Let Daddy and I do this and we’ll buy you another ice cream, ok?” But Tim wouldn’t be bribed and Janet Drake learned that the Graysons also had children who would be allowed in the photo, so she had relented and given Tim his wish.

Tim had an excellent memory, and he remembered the picture down to the feeling. He remembered the joy when John Grayson had knelt down and called him their best fan. He remembered another little boy no older than eight - Richard - talking excitedly with him and giving him attention; Tim couldn’t quite keep up, but he loved the way he talked with his hands. He didn’t remember the picture itself - it was all done too fast - but if one were to look at the photo that Tim kept under his bed from then into forever, they would see that the four year old's smile was so bright it practically burned a hole in the paper.

The thing was, Tim also remembered the after. He remembered the Grayson’s routine like someone who had studied choreography before, and not someone who needed a booster seat to ride in a car. He remembered the fall, the looks on the performers’ faces, the scream of the young boy from the top of the ring, and the sickening _crack_ as bodies met concrete.

He did not see the fallout. His parents didn’t stick around to let him see the ambulances, or the shell shocked boy with no one to turn to, or the man who, in a strange act of guardianship, came to his rescue.

What had been shaping up to be the best day of Tim’s life had turned into the worst, but he was four years old and had no way of doing anything at all. So he went home, tucked the picture of the Flying Graysons safely under his bed in his box of Special Memories, and thought of another boy who had had the worst night of his life, though _much_ worse than Tim’s had been. A boy named Richard, who was nice to Tim, who talked with his hands, and who, mere hours before, had disappeared behind circus curtains with his mother ruffling his hair and calling him her Robin.

***

The second time Tim met Robin, he was eight years old and felt like he’d just made a discovery akin to excavating the first dinosaur bones. There had been a new vigilante in town for quite a while, a sprightly Robin for a grumpy Batman. And truly, Robin had brought not only a new energy into the city, but a new energy into Tim. He was obsessed with the guardians of Gotham, and that night was the first night he would really _prove_ it.

Tim had been concocting the plan for days. He knew his parents were out of town on business, and would be until the end of the month. The babysitter they’d hired was a heavier sleeper than a bear in hibernation, and she put Tim to bed at nine and herself slept at ten, leaving plenty of time for him to sneak out undetected. The required gear was also a non-issue. Tim had little difficulty acquiring a backpack, some rope, a watch, a flashlight, a camera, and water and some granola bars for the road. So, at age eight, Tim Drake opened his bedroom window and half climbed, half fell down the side of the house, as he prepared to take on Gotham alone.

That wasn’t the extent of his plan, either. On his way to and from school, Tim had scouted out an ideal hiding spot to wait until Batman and Robin appeared. (He chose the roof of a corner convenience store; easy access, relatively hidden on the top, and near enough to Bat-activity without being too far away from home.) Tim made his way downtown and on the roof with relative ease, settling in for the long haul.

And a long haul it was. As the night dragged on, the only thing abating Tim’s drowsiness was the biting chill of the Gotham wind. He huddled deep into his coat, munched on a granola bar poking out of his sleeve, and wished on the stars for Batman and Robin to come.

The stars were never the most reliable things, in Tim’s experience - and nor were wishes, for that matter - but that night they must have been aligned, because at one twenty-seven a.m., Batman and Robin made an appearance.

Tim had dozed off a bit, but at the sound of Robin’s maniacal cackle he was abruptly awakened. _They were_ here! _By the roof he’d chosen!_ With frozen fingertips, Tim unzipped the backpack and took out his camera. _This was it!_

From the convenience store roof, Tim Drake was blessed by two miracles. One, he had a successful photoshoot. (Truthfully, it was dark and difficult to make out anything is some of the photos. To be fair, he was only an eight year old, and there were a couple that were undeniably pictures of Gotham’s famed vigilantes. To him, this counted as a victory.) Two, he had a successful, albeit unplanned, sleuthing expedition. Watching Robin flip uniquely from rooftop to rooftop, moving his hands expressionately at Batman, and smiling in a way he could see even from buildings away, Tim was sure he had uncovered something that no one else had been able to discover.

Tim could barely contain his excitement as he made his way home and back into the safety of his bed. He crawled under his bed and retrieved the picture of the Flying Graysons, buried deep under other trinkets in Tim’s box of Special Memories. Placing the old photo along a new one he’d taken tonight of Robin, Tim couldn’t help but laugh. He knew _Robin._

***

The third time Tim met Robin, he was ten years old, and like the first time, Robin wasn’t quite at that point yet. Tim had snuck away from his babysitter to wander the city on his own - because, really, he hadn’t needed that kind of supervision since he was eight - and had wound up at the bus stop looking for a ride home, armed with only his wallet and a camera.

He’d meant to stay out and take some pictures of Batman and Robin, _his_ vigilantes, the ones whose secret he protected, even if they didn't know it. But it was getting cold and he was a little nervous, so Tim decided this escapade could wait another night.

“Hey,” said a voice from behind him, and Tim jumped slightly when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. “Do you know the way to the library from here?”

The speaker was a boy who couldn’t have been more than two years older than Tim. He was taller than Tim by a good six inches and had messy dark hair with a white streak in the front, like he was already going gray but the rest of his head hadn’t agreed. His clothes were well worn, and he had the look of someone very young trying to appear much older. Tim might have thought that he looked cool if something about his eyes didn’t scream of sadness.

“Sure,” replied Tim, regaining his bearings. “Take a left at the end of the road, head three blocks down, then…” he trailed off.

“What?” asked the stranger.

“Can you please give me back my wallet?”

The boy eyes conveyed shocked, his eyebrows contorted in borderline anger, but to Tim’s surprise his face softened as he laughed and took a wallet out from his back pocket. “How’d you know?”

“Paranoia, mostly. And why else would you want to talk to me?”

“Can’t a guy ask for directions?” he laughed again, but handed Tim back his wallet. “You’re pretty clever, kid.”

The kid turned to leave, but Tim stopped him. “Wait! What’s your name?”

The stranger looked caught off guard for a second time. Tim wasn’t sure if he was misreading the situation, if his ability to read people wasn’t _quite_ that nuanced, but he swore he saw something in the boy’s eyes that reminded him of himself. Something told him neither of them got asked that question very often, or got paid attention to at all.

For a second, Tim thought that this was such unfamiliar territory the boy would walk away, but he replied. “Jason.”

“I’m Tim,” he replied, still not entirely certain why he was telling the would-be robber his name, why a would-be robber would tell Tim _his_ name, though nevertheless strangely pleased by the interaction.

“Well, see you around, Tim,” said Jason, nodding slightly before heading off - in the direction of the library, Tim noticed.

 _Probably not,_ Tim thought, as the bus pulled into the station and he boarded it. On the bus, he opened his wallet to find that there was only a five dollar bill left.

Tim took the bus as far as he could and had to walk the rest of the way home.

***

The fourth time Tim met Robin, he was eleven years old. And he didn’t meet him, exactly, not in person, but he knew it was him, and he knew he was meeting that boy as his new self before anyone else - save Batman.

Tim had been reading the newspaper that had been left on the counter where he saw the front page’s loud declaration that Bruce Wayne had taken a new ward under his wing - Jason Todd. When he saw the picture of Bruce and Jason, Tim had grinned and laughed aloud. First Dick, and now Jason? The coincidences kept stacking up, and either Tim was really, really lucky, or the universe had a weird sense of humor.

“What’s so funny?” his father asked, not bothering to look up from his own paper.

Tim stopped laughing and said, “Nothing,” but he kept on smiling.

***

The fifth time Tim met Robin, he was twelve years old, with the daring of someone a decade older. He’d snuck out of the house with ease, having learned years ago that his parents only cared about his disappearing when it was convenient for them to care, which was almost never. He’d gotten lots of new pictures of Batman and Robin, because this was a new Robin, a less experienced yet confident bird who already knew the streets of Gotham and patrolled them like he owned them. Which, to be fair, he kind of did.

As Tim did his own patrolling from low on the ground, on the hunt for a visual story only Gotham could provide, he himself felt a strange surge of power. He had known not one but two Robins before and after their transformations, something that nobody else could say, otherwise it’d be worldwide news before Batman could even glare at them.

It had reached one a.m. so Tim was headed home, lost in a reverie of the intangible power he had. He was almost to the bus station when he was rudely stopped by a group of three men on the sidewalk.

“Hey kid, why don’tcha hand over your cash?”

 _What would Robin do?_ Robin would know that even if he gave them money, these men were dangerous and likely intended to hurt him. Robin would get to high ground. Tim shook his head, backing up from the group into a back alley, frantically searching for a fire escape.

“Did he just do what I think he did?”

“Yeah, I think he did. We should teach him a lesson he won’t forget.”

They proceeded menacingly forward, and Tim backed up as far as he could, but there was no fire escape in sight, not even a foothold in the wall to try and climb. Gotham had _terrible_ building safety, he thought sourly.

The men were approaching slowly but menacingly, seeing that he had nowhere left to turn. _What would Robin do?_ If he had nowhere left to go, Robin would fight. Tim stood his ground, letting his camera case slide off his shoulder and positioning his body in a sideways fighting stance with his hands protectively guarding his face.

The first man stepped in front of the other two, pulling his fist back - in poor form, Tim noted - to punch him, but he never got that far.

From the rooftop someone cackled, and the first man collapsed on the ground because a bird had landed on his shoulders. Smirking like he knew that he stronger than these men - which he was - Robin moved to attack the other thugs. He launched his leg at one of their chests and back kicked the other in quick formation, but the thug from the ground had recovered from his previous shock and reared up to hit Robin. Fortunately, he didn’t land the blow, because Tim had approached behind him and swung his backpack, clubbing the thug in the head.

Robin finished beating down on the other two, and all three stumbled away as fast as they could. Tim grinned at him, giddy. “Thanks, but I can handle myself.”

“Sure you can, because you were doing _so_ well before I came along.”

Tim rolled his eyes and slung the bag over his shoulder. “I hit that one dude in the head. And I could have escaped anytime I wanted to.”

“Whatever you say, kid, but your stance is crap.” To demonstrate, he swung his leg and kicks Tim’s leg out from under him, and Tim went _down_. “Bend your knees more; that way, you got more support.”

Tim looked at him, mouth agape. That was basic knowledge. How had he made such a rookie mistake in front of Robin?

Said vigilante wasn’t done admonishing him. “Now, are you good, or do I need to call your mommy to walk you home?”

“What do you think?” said Tim, already walking away from the alley. He was smiling lightly in spite of everything, but it had been a long night and his burst of adrenaline-fueled strength was wearing off, and he didn’t want Robin to see him like this.

Robin grappled back on the rooftop, watching the boy as he walked away. Tim pretended that Robin wouldn’t notice that he was shaking, not quite as confident as he’d like everyone to think. He kidded himself when he thought Robin didn’t see him him wipe his arm across his face, then quickly withdraw it and walk a little faster.

Tim had studied these vigilantes long enough that they always annoyingly stuck around to make sure the situation was under control, but he was not a _situation_ , Tim told himself, because he had power here. Tim _was_ powerful; he didn’t need supervision and he didn’t need protection, not when he'd been without both for years. So he thought, _Robin wouldn’t have stuck around because I had it all under control,_ and didn't really care whether that was the objective truth or not.

When he got home, Tim looked at his pictures from that night for a long time. He fell asleep with one in his hand, a picture of Robin standing on a rooftop like he was on top of the world.

***

The sixth time Tim met Robin, he was thirteen years old, and it was a family affair. Usually he detested galas, and his parents hardly forced him to make appearances anymore - just for holidays and the occasional random event they deemed “important.” Unfortunately for him, this was one of those events. On the bright side, rumors had been floating around that the prodigal son Dick Grayson might be returning for the gala, and Tim, for one, was at least passively interested to see how that would play out.

So he dressed up and played the part of the obedient son; wore a suit, shook hands, made polite small talk, and disappeared to the corner of the room with a veritable lifetime supply of fruit and cheese wedges at the first opportunity.

At first it seemed as thought the rumors weren’t true, but as Tim observed the crowd, there was a surge of people towards the entrance, and slowly the clump made its way across the room until he could see through it. Well. The rumors _had_ been true, and in true form, Dick Grayson certainly knew how to make an entrance.

Surprisingly, the same could not be said for Bruce Wayne, at least not tonight. Tim wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying to Dick, but he could guess: “when will your father be making an appearance?” or “are the rumors that you and Mr. Wayne were fighting true?” and “are you on good terms once again?” (Tim knew what they didn’t. Batman had a fight with Robin a long time ago; Robin had become Nightwing; the two had rarely been seen together since, as either identity. Tim knew this. He was the only one.)

As the mob drew closer, Tim inched back further, not keen on being swept up into a group of people and forced to make conversation of just how _exciting_ it was that Bruce Wayne’s son was back in town. There was a small side door in his corner - an escape! - and Tim took it. He backed up through it a few steps and almost dropped his plate of snacks when he hit a solid body.

“Do you mind?” A hand snaked around him and grabbed a toothpick stuck into a square of cheese.

He _knew_ that voice, better than most. Tim spun around to face Bruce Wayne himself, the man of the evening, who currently was munching calmly on Tim's cheese.

“Mr. Wayne! I’m sorry, I just-”

“Needed to get away from the crowd?” Tim nodded. “Truthfully, sometimes I feel the same way.”

He smiled kindly at him as he stabbed a slice of apple with the toothpick and ate that too. Tim was doing all he could to not betray how exhilarated he was, talking to _Batman_ , who was hiding out at his own party.

“You’re Timothy Drake, correct?” His voice was so much gentler than it was as Batman, Tim noticed. The man was also not standing up as straight as he could; not that he had bad posture, but it wasn’t quite the strut of Bruce Wayne or the intimidating forward stance of Batman. Bruce was trying to appear _non threatening_ , he realized, for some reason thrilled at the revelation. He could read _Batman_ , the most notoriously stoic person in possibly the whole world.

“I go by Tim,” he replied.

Bruce smiled at him again. “I’ve heard of you. You’re quite the prodigy; I’m sure your parents are very proud of you.”

Tim snorted almost reflexively. Bruce clearly noticed his strong reaction to the mention of his parents, but thankfully chose not to confront it. “I think you’d get along well with my sons. I’m probably obligated to greet all the guests at my own party, aren’t I?” he half sighed.

“One would assume, yeah.”

“Then when you reemerge from solitude and join the other guests, find me and I’ll introduce you.”

“Um, thanks,” said Tim, absolutely sincere.

“My pleasure,” Bruce said, taking the opportunity to snag one last apple slice and eat it. “And now, duty calls. I don’t have any food in my teeth, do I?”

“All clear.”

“Ok! I should be on my way. It was a pleasure meeting you, Tim. Thank you for the snacks.” He gave Tim a huge thumbs up before standing up a little straighter - his Bruce stance, Tim thought - and pushed through the doors, ready to face the press, and his first son.

Tim did eventually emerge into the sea of socialites, to refill his snacks that Bruce had so rudely depleted, but more honestly to get the chance to meet both Robins face to face, again.

And meet them he did. Bruce introduced him to Dick and Jason, neither of whom seemed to recognize Tim, but both of whom seemed at the very least curious to talk to him. He supposed it was better than the alternative: making small talk with people who only wanted to talk about his parents. Somehow it came up that Tim considered himself an amateur photographer, and Bruce took it upon himself to give Tim a camera - that man had _everything_ , with or without the utility belt - and have him take a picture of him and his sons.

Tim took the picture, which he felt was mediocre at best and not unconventional in the slightest, but Dick seemed enthused, Jason gave a disinterested grunt of semi-approval, and Bruce asked Tim to send over his portfolio when he got the chance. It was all he could do to not burst into tears on the spot.

When he felt that his social obligations had been fulfilled, Tim searched for his parents, only to discover that they had left ahead of him on “urgent business.” (Funny, he thought, how this gala was “important” enough for him to come, but not important enough for them to stick around.) Somehow, he couldn’t find it in him to care.

He got home, pulled out his box of Special Memories from the box under the bed - now more securely hidden under a loose floorboard - and put the picture of the Waynes on top, just over a recent picture of Batman, Robin, and Nightwing. Tim went to sleep with tears in his eyes and his heart so full of unfamiliar energy it was about to burst. It was one of the best nights of his life.

***

The seventh time Tim met Robin, he was fourteen years old and staring in a mirror.

He pulled out the box from a hidden panel under his bed and sat on the floor, flipping through memories. There would be no new additions; Tim couldn't bring himself to take more pictures without Robin there. That was really why he’d started this whole _stupid_ journalistic venture, keeping track of Batman _and_ Robin, wasn’t it? Something kept drawing the Robins to him, or him to the Robins, something fascinating about the essence of the mantle that kept everything going.

And honestly, Tim didn't want to keep a record of just Batman for other reasons. This new Batman was in mourning, but grief made him violent, and he wasn't getting any better. Without Robin, everything was falling apart.

Tim could help, though. He _knew_ he could. Years of honing his observation skills to stalk a duo of superheros had taught him thing or two. Batman needed a Robin, and maybe Tim wasn’t his son - God, he knew it too well, knew he could never replace his sons or be loved as they were - but he could be a rock. He knew enough about being a detective, about the Detective himself, to be an adequate work partner. He could be the stabilizing element that Batman _needed_ to keep Gotham, and himself, from succumbing to darkness.

Tim felt his eyes begin to sting as they welled up against his will, but he resisted the urge to let it all go. Instead, he returned the pictures to their nook in the box under the floorboard, took a deep breath, and made his decision. The city still needed Batman, and Tim wasn't about to let anyone down. So, at age fourteen, Robin opened his bedroom window and took flight.


End file.
